Poetic Night
by chokileemao
Summary: An argument over romantic status evolves into something more meaningful.


**Poetic Night**

**This is an RP between my RP buddy and me. Enjoy! **

"You must be out of your mind if you think your country is more romantic!" France laughed loudly at the thought, wiping away a few stray tears. It was truly hilarious. England? More romantic than France? Just thinking about the prospect of something that horrendous made France want to drop and roll on the ground in uncontrollable laughter. "My my, are you sure you're not drunk? To be spouting such a thing... Even if you claim you are not drunk, I could say otherwise! Though if you ARE drunk, it certainly makes things easier for me here on out..." France hummed in amusement and tapped his glass of wine on the coffee table he was leaning against. England sat across of him with his own alcohol. It didn't take long for him to speak up again in curiosity, "Though I must know... What makes _you _of all people think that your little island is better in the field of romanticism?"

England glared fiercely at the Frenchman across from him, growing increasingly irritated with the smug smirk on the frog's face. How dare he insult the romance, the culture, the love of his nation! "That should be obvious!" he exclaimed indignantly. "And you're a bloody fool if you don't realize how romantic the British are! Men and women alike all fell down swooning at the feet of good ol' William Shakespeare," he pointed out. He had more evidence to be sure, but he leaned back in his seat anyway, feeling that Shakespeare's name said it all. He raised an eyebrow, daring France to challenge his statement.

France chuckled at England's attempt support his theory. "Ah~ But he is only one man, is he not?" he countered it easily. After all, France had more than enough history with romance to win the argument. "One measly man cannot face my history of romance!" he claimed. "Although I must agree, Shakespeare really did create some of the most heart-wrenching romance stories, he has nothing compared to the various French romantic novelists AND art!" He settled in his seat, sipping a little more of his wine. "Besides, nearly everyone in the world associates romance with France!"

"That man practically created romance in literature! Every star crossed duo is compared to Romeo and Juliet. Every Valentine's Day, his sonnets are recited through the lips of hundreds, no, thousands of lovers!" England exclaimed. His hands clenched into fists as he felt himself getting more and more riled up. "And that's not all I have to offer: Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters, Lord Byron, William Blake. I could go on and on!" He really did chafe at the very notion that another country claimed to have better romance novelists than he did. Art he could concede, just a bit, but literature was his battlefield and in his mind, France had just declared war.

"Then, dear England," France paused in his speech in an attempt to make what he was about to say more dramatic. "If Shakespeare is truly as amazing as you claim him to be, I'm sure you know some of his sonnets by heart, yes? Why don't you recite some to me and I, the country of romance, can be the judge of that. If it's as good as you say, maybe I'll give your country some credit in the literature department~" It was a nice offer, France thought. He generally thought of himself as a generous and considerate fellow, and he liked to display what he claimed. And in this case, both parties would have won something in exchange. England would receive at least some of the recognition he wanted and France, some romantic poetry recited by his obstinate boyfriend. He was more than happy to admit that England was stronger than his country in the literary domain if he could get him to prove it firsthand.

England took the bait and immediately stepped up the plate, reciting the first sonnet that came to mind.

"_Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?_

_Thou art more lovely and more temperate:_

_Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,_

_And summer's lease hath all too short a date:_

_Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,_

_And often is his gold complexion dimmed,_

_And every fair from fair sometime declines,_

_By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:_

_But thy eternal summer shall not fade,_

_Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,_

_Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,_

_When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,_

_So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,_

_So long lives this, and this gives life to thee._"

England said all this gracefully, the sweet words flowing out naturally. It was one of Shakespeare's most famous sonnets, and he hoped the passion in his voice really did it enough justice.

France only smiled, heaving a soft sigh as he let England's words flow out without interruption. He really didn't think he would give in to the taunt that easily. Though, France supposed, it was a well hidden taunt. When England finished reciting, his accent making the experience all the better, France reached out and grabbed England's arm so that he fell forward, the table keeping him from face-planting completely. France chuckled and brushed away a few strands of England's bangs, "Oh, England. You really are too cute," he teased. "That was beautiful, you know. Maybe if you recited Shakespeare more often, people will think your country is also romantic."

England blushed, but did not look away from France's gaze. "My country _is_ romantic. And as much as I love and appreciate Shakespeare's poems, it would be far too silly to go around reciting them... Besides, I write my own," he admitted the last part quietly. He normally felt embarrassed telling people that he wrote his own poetry, but this time his pride allowed him to say so. Besides, it wasn't like it was _bad_ poetry. Since they changed with the vernacular at the time, he knew his more recent ones couldn't compare to a classic sonnet, but they were still sweet and lovely in their own way.

"Hm?" France met his gaze curiously. "Do you? Why, you've never told me so!" He was a little offended that England didn't trust him enough to tell him. He had always had a soft spot for poetry. Since there were virtually no rules binding poetry to a specific format, France believed that all poetry were individual and unique pieces of art and literature. He knew that most people felt embarrassed when admitting they wrote poetry (something he definitely caught in England's gaze). As a result of his belief, there was no way he would ever judge a poem with "good" or "bad," let alone England's.

Deciding that it was too awkward talking with the coffee table between them, England sighed and stepped around it to sit down beside France. "Well of course I never told you... It's not something that I go around flaunting, you know. And it's not like you ever asked me about it so I never found any reason to mention it," he shrugged. He had written a few poems for Francis over the years, but every time he meant to actually read them to him, his throat dried up and his mind blanked. It was one thing to write poetry; it was far more nerve wracking to actually present it to the person it was meant for.

France immediately reached around to wrap his arm around England's waist, tugging him close against him. "I suppose that's reasonable," he agreed quietly. His wine laid forgotten on the coffee table as France shifted a little to get into a more comfortable position. It was then that a sudden thought sparked in him and he turned to England with a grin, "You don't happen to have a poem at hand, do you? I would love to hear some poetry you created~" Although it kind of sounded like one, it definitely wasn't a lie. He truly was eager to hear.

England bit his lip, considering. He had actually just begun working on a rather lengthy poem for the Frenchman, but it wasn't even close to being done. He racked his brain for one of his other poems, and one of his sonnets – modeled after Shakespeare's rhyme and meter – came to mind. He cleared his throat and recited,

_"I wish I could compare you to the moon._

_You are bright and lovely, but if you were_

_Gone each day, for me that would be too soon._

_Already our time flies in a sweet blur._

_In my eyes all the stars dim next to you,_

_For your radiance is one of a kind._

_When we're together, it's all I can do_

_to keep up with you and not fall behind._

_Though the moon's beauty is evanescent,_

_And to me, you too, often seem surreal,_

_For your smile is simply incandescent,_

_Your love is the only thing I can feel._

_I can't call you the moon, sun, or a star-_

_Because you are my everything, yes, you are." _

Once he was done, he looked at France with anxious but hopeful eyes.

France's smile widened with each word. It was a sweet poem, he could never deny that. He waited patiently for England to finish reciting, enjoying each and every word. They sat in silence for a little while as France let the poem fully sink into his mind before speaking up, "You wrote that?" He knew the answer to his question already; he just needed to confirm it once more with England's verbal response.

"Yes," he replied with a small nod of his head. He knew the smile on France's face was a good sign, but that didn't make him any less anxious to hear what he thought of the poem. He squeezed France's hand nervously and added in a mumble, "I had you in mind when I wrote it..."

His smile widened into a pleased grin and he scooped the smaller man into his arms happily. "Really?" France laughed joyfully and rocked a little back and forth. "I'm honored. To be the subject of such a wonderful poem, it truly is a magnificent feeling!" It was one of the few times Francis felt authentically loved. Of course, just being with England did the trick, but this made Francis feel more so than he had ever felt.

England smiled. Seeing France so happy, and knowing that he was the cause of it, brought a certain, pleasant warmth to his chest. The sound of France's laughter was like music to his ears. Unable to resist, he tugged on France's collar to pull him closer and pressed their lips together in a chaste, loving kiss.

France tensed in surprise but soon caught wind of what was happening and smiled. He pressed forward to deepen the kiss, his arms gradually finding their way to England's back, then his waist before wrapping securely around it. He tugged England flush against his body when they finally parted. His eyes locked with green when they didn't move further apart; instead, staying comfortably close to gaze tenderly into each other's eyes. England internally swooned. Looking into those gorgeous blue eyes, staring at him with nothing but sincere warmth and affection, he honestly questioned how he could have ever doubted France for a second when he claimed the title of the most romantic nation. After all, only France could succeed in making England feel so wonderfully admired and wanted and oh so very loved with little moments like these.

A warm smile spread across France's lips and he bent down to capture England's lips again for a fleeting peck."You're face is burning," France whispered into his ear a moment later, his warm breath softly caressing the skin. "Are you sure you're not getting drunk off of affection~?" he teased playfully and kissed him again, this time leaving it on the space England's ear joined together with his neck.

"When your affection is nectar and your love is ambrosia, how can I not be intoxicated by it?" England responded, humming contentedly. Indeed, his mind was often foggy when he was alone and so close to his lover like this.

France chuckled and brushed his fingers through England's hair. "You're quite good at creating poetic statements on the spot," he complimented earnestly. His fingers moved from England's hair and down his back as he gently pressed them into his skin, massaging his back slowly. "I like it, when we're just sitting together like this." France felt the need to point that out, just so that they would be able to do it more often in the future.

"I do, too," England said honestly, cherishing France's touch. "It's nice to be alone with you and not have to do with anyone else's nonsense. Just you, me, and a smattering of romance."

France chuckled in amusement and nuzzled his head against the crook of England's neck. "I see we finally came to an agreement on something," he pointed out happily. For the two of them to actually come to an agreement was definitely an experience that happened once in a lifetime.

"A rare moment indeed," England teased, bringing a hand up to run his fingers through France's hair. He loved how affectionate France was in these private moments. It was nothing like the 'groping' people accused him of; just light touches and sweet caresses.

France practically purred at the feeling. He loved it when England ran his hand through his hair. He kept his hair long for a few reasons, and that was one of them. He loved the sensation of England's fingers brushing through his hair. "You know I love it when you do that," France murmured huskily and leaned close, squeezing England tighter than he had before.

"I know, love" England replied, continuing with his actions. He couldn't help but laugh a little. France just looked so endearing whenever he did that. He slowly stroked those silky smooth locks, reveling in the feeling of France's arms holding him so tightly.

After a while of just embracing each other, France loosened his hold. He was much more relaxed than he had been and as a result, let out a long and drawn out yawn. He recovered from it slowly as he brushed his bangs back, "Do you want to move to the bed? I'm feeling quite tired..."

England nodded, resisting the urge to yawn as well. He stood, pulling France up with him. "Let's get some sleep," he said, holding onto his boyfriend's hand and guiding him to their bedroom. "Although I must admit, you're simply adorable when you're tired like this," England commented, smiling wryly.

"Like your one to talk," France smirked sleepily and yawned again. He stumbled back to their room together and nearly dropped dead on the bed. But he managed to sit down somewhat normally and roll himself onto the mattress. "You've obviously never seen yourself when you're tired..." he commented.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" England questioned, sliding into bed much more smoothly than his boyfriend did. He pulled the covers up over them and turned on his side to face France as he spoke.

"I'll take a picture next time," France declared and snuggled deeply into the blankets, lazily scooting closer to England. "You'll see what I mean then." He slipped his arms around England's torso to pull him close. It was cozy in the bed, especially with England sharing the bed with him.

"You wouldn't dare," England murmured, hugging France close. He felt so at ease being with Francis and the room was so warm, he let his eyes fall shut. He knew both of them were seconds away from falling asleep and he was perfectly okay with that. It was romantic, wasn't it? The two of them falling asleep together in each other's arms.

France sighed softly, letting all the muscles in his body go loose. It wasn't hard to do, especially since he was so relaxed just moments before. He hovered in the haze between sleep and consciousness and right when he felt like he was about to slip into sleep, he leaned forward blindingly, his eyes still closed, and placed a gentle kiss where he thought England's forehead was. He didn't bother opening his eyes to see if his lips made its mark; he was far too sleepy for that. Instead, he let himself fall into the clutches of sleep, welcoming the darkness coupled with relaxation with open arms. And the last thing he remembered thinking about right before he fell asleep was if his kiss was enough to suffice as a good night "I love you."

England, just a tad more awake than France, felt his face heat up. How France managed to kiss his forehead like that even when half-asleep was beyond him. Smiling at his dozing boyfriend, he pressed a soft kiss to his lips and whispered, "I know, I love you too." Satisfied, he closed his eyes, letting the warmth of his lover's body finally coax him to sleep.

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